Swedish skip Peter Lindholm is overly excited.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Cue the lights
I was sitting in the trombone studio around 9:00 pm one night last week with my quartet, reading through some new pieces, when suddenly and for no reason, the lights went out in the room. My first thought was that there was a power outage on campus. But the others new better. It had never happened to me before, but apparently the lights in the classrooms tend to spontaneously turn off from time to time, especially late at night. I found this kind of strange, but took no notice of it then.
Yesterday afternoon, around 4:30 pm, I had an audition for a summer festival. The audition was going well, I made it through my solo piece and two excerpts and had played rather well, I thought. Then it came time to play Ride of the Valkyries. In the second full measure, I went too high for the F sharp, and missed it badly, then came back down and cracked the next D as well. I recovered and kept going, but figured the damage had been done. Then it happened. Not before I reached the downbeat of bar four, the lights went out. I kept playing for a moment, not sure what else to do, but the guy hearing the audition stopped me. He seemed as perplexed as I had been the week before. I managed to explain that it happened sometimes for no reason, found the lightswitch and flipped it back on. So, everything settled again, I restarted the excerpt, and made it through without incident.
I couldn't have planned it better if I had tried. I'm talking about a matter of maybe three seconds between my mistake and the lights cutting out. It was bizarre. And strangly enough, my first thought as I was leaving the room was of my mother, who always says before every audition that she will be praying for me. When she says this, I usually respond "Okay, thanks" in an appreciative but sarcastic tone. Of course, despite my doubts, it does have its benefits. Just knowing that someone is praying for you can have a big impact. The fact that someone would stop what they are doing to think of you and send their good wishes and intentions is quite comforting in some way, whether or not you believe that they are affecting your fortune by petitioning some higher power. But who's to say?
When I told my mother what happened, she naturally saw it as a sign from God. And what else would you call it? I've always been wary of the idea of a pure coincidence, things falling nicely into place through the workings of chance alone. I think that comes from adding up lots of experiences such as this one, moments which I somehow feel I will never be able to fully explain or understand.
Yesterday afternoon, around 4:30 pm, I had an audition for a summer festival. The audition was going well, I made it through my solo piece and two excerpts and had played rather well, I thought. Then it came time to play Ride of the Valkyries. In the second full measure, I went too high for the F sharp, and missed it badly, then came back down and cracked the next D as well. I recovered and kept going, but figured the damage had been done. Then it happened. Not before I reached the downbeat of bar four, the lights went out. I kept playing for a moment, not sure what else to do, but the guy hearing the audition stopped me. He seemed as perplexed as I had been the week before. I managed to explain that it happened sometimes for no reason, found the lightswitch and flipped it back on. So, everything settled again, I restarted the excerpt, and made it through without incident.
I couldn't have planned it better if I had tried. I'm talking about a matter of maybe three seconds between my mistake and the lights cutting out. It was bizarre. And strangly enough, my first thought as I was leaving the room was of my mother, who always says before every audition that she will be praying for me. When she says this, I usually respond "Okay, thanks" in an appreciative but sarcastic tone. Of course, despite my doubts, it does have its benefits. Just knowing that someone is praying for you can have a big impact. The fact that someone would stop what they are doing to think of you and send their good wishes and intentions is quite comforting in some way, whether or not you believe that they are affecting your fortune by petitioning some higher power. But who's to say?
When I told my mother what happened, she naturally saw it as a sign from God. And what else would you call it? I've always been wary of the idea of a pure coincidence, things falling nicely into place through the workings of chance alone. I think that comes from adding up lots of experiences such as this one, moments which I somehow feel I will never be able to fully explain or understand.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
What day is this again?
So it came to my attention recently that, just as February 14 has come to be known as Valentine's Day, a similar significance has been attached to the day before, mostly by online greeting card companies. February 13, it seems, is from here on to be known as "I Value Our Friendship Day."
Is that not the worst idea for a holiday ever? And that being said, couldn't they have come up with a better name? I mean, February 14 is not "I Value Our Committed and Lasting Romantic Relationship Day," it's fucking "Valentine's Day." I mean, a little creativity, people.
Is that not the worst idea for a holiday ever? And that being said, couldn't they have come up with a better name? I mean, February 14 is not "I Value Our Committed and Lasting Romantic Relationship Day," it's fucking "Valentine's Day." I mean, a little creativity, people.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Itzhak Perlman plays Mozart, conducts Tchaikovsky
Wow. Okay. So I wanted to write about last night while it was happening, right after it happened, and then again when I woke up this morning. But various things kept me from doing so until now, at which point I'm not sure how to best get it all down.
I'll start with the necessary background. So last night there was a concert, no wait, a "Gala event," celebrating the 30th anniversary of the Shepherd School of Music. The idea was to charge oodles of money for seats, to get lots of donors to open their wallets and help fund the school's scholarships, which are significant (after this concert, I think tuition will be basically free for all graduate students). The program looked like this:
The Infernal Machine by Christopher Rouse, Larry Rachleff conducting
Violin Concerto No. 17 by Mozart, Itzhak Perlman, violin, Larry Rachleff conducting
Intermission
Symphony No. 4 by Tchaikovsky, Itzhak Perlman conducting.
Needless to say, the night was a success. The school raised a total of 3 million dollars. That's not a typo. The cheapest seats were $500 a pop. I found out later that the lucky donors who sat at Perlman's table for dinner after the concert paid upwards of $500,000 each for the privilege.
So here's the thing. This concert is a big deal. I want to see it. The Rouse and Tchaikovsky both have trombones, but I am not assigned to play on either one. There are seats in the gallery behind the stage reserved for musicians while they are not playing, but are only for musicians who are actually playing in the concert (they made sure to specifically mention this). To make matters worse, there is a free buffet after the concert at a Mexican restaurant uptown called Ninfa's, which is, again, intended only for musicians specifically playing on this concert. What was I to do? Tickets started at $500, so scratch any legitimate attempt at getting a seat. I can't sneak in, security will be too tight for such an event. But why sneak? I'm a musician. If I show up in a tuxedo, look like I'm there to play, and walk up to the reserved musician seats, who would stop me? And as long as I got that far, I might as well attend the buffet afterwards, right?
What could possibly go wrong?
So that you can fully appreciate the events that followed my decision to crash this concert, I have provided a detailed description of the evening, classic Sports Guy-style, in diary form. Since I was not actually keeping a diary during the night, the times are approximate. But you get the idea.
Saturday, February 4, 2006
7:00 pm - Emily and Lilly are getting dressed and ready to go actually play in the concert. Time for me to put on my tux and get my game face on. For tonight, I'm crashing a $3,000,000 event, and nothing can stop me.
7:10 pm - Arrive at Alice Pratt Brown Hall, home of the Shepherd School. Patrons of the concert are driving their cars right up to the building's entrance, where a red carpet and valet service awaits them. We, lowly musicians (well, myself excluded) park ourselves and walk.
7:13 pm - The lobby of the building is full of people, and we have to push our way through. First pangs of panic when I brush right past one of the music school administrators, but calm down again when I realize he has no idea who plays in what piece. In fact, pretty much nobody has any idea who plays in what piece, except for Larry, the conductor, who I can easily avoid by avoiding the backstage area, and possibly Marty, the orchestra manager who sends out casting and rehearsal emails. But even Marty will have too much going on to notice. My confidence is beginning to grow.
7:15 pm - Okay, through the lobby. Need to kill some time, look busy. Head to the bathroom.
7:18 pm - That didn't kill enough time. Concert starts at 7:30. I don't want to sit down to early, be the only one there. Run into Emily. She says nobody is up there yet, that I should wait. But waiting increases my panic level with each minute. Someone's going to see me. Pace the hall.
7:22 pm - Momentary panic. Ms. Speziale, the trumpet teacher, is heading towards me. I freeze. I can't avoid her. She knows, she's going to ask why I'm dressed up. She knows I don't play. Too late, here she comes, she's smiling, waving to me, "Play pretty!" she says. Wait, what? Play pretty?!!! I fooled her! I fooled Ms. Speziale. This is too easy. I'm going to go sit down.
7:30 pm - In my seat. Concert's about to start. I begin to ponder possible strategies. I should at the very least change seats for the second half, so that nobody will notice that I am up here the entire concert. Finalize my plan to go down after the Mozart and chill briefly in the stairwell before quickly circling around to the other side and entering a different door and taking a different seat. Should I change my wardrobe somehow, take off my bow tie? Muss up my hair? Trade contacts for glasses? No, too late. Just relax, you're fine. The concert's starting.
7:40 pm - Okay, Rouse is over. It was pretty good. The orchestra sounds amazing, as always. I can't wait to hear the rest. The orchestra members not playing in the Mozart begin to file up to the musician seats to hear Itzhak. I start to feel guilty because I stole a seat. But it's okay, I'm here for a reason, I'm playing this concert, stay in character, Chris, stay in character. I'm sitting next to Mark, another trombone player who will be playing in the Tchaikovsky. He asks something to the effect of "How did it go," implying that he thought I had played in the Rouse. I explained my situation to him, and he seemed completely shocked. I mean, this is a trombone player! He knows the castings, that I don't play, and I fooled him! Man, I'm untouchable now. I mean, think about it, who would ever show up to a concert in a tux and claim to be playing in the concert if they weren't? What kind of person would do something like that? It's insane! Confidence rising.
7:42 pm - Another scary moment during the change for the Mozart, an usher (Ushers? Shit.) comes up to our row and says that nobody is supposed to be here. I say nothing. Someone next to me says they are playing in the second half, and explains that we are allowed to be here. Ten minutes ago, I would have panicked. But now I'm untouchable. I'm playing. I'm allowed to sit here. Prove me wrong.
8:10 pm - That was amazing. It takes Itzhak so much effort to get across the stage to the podium, due to a childhood case of Polio, but when he picks up the violin and starts to play, it's completely effortless. It's like he's talking, or breathing. It's an extension of him. Intermission time now. Forget the plan, I'm going down to see some of my friends.
8:12 pm - Run into Wayne, who is auditioning on French Horn and staying with me for the weekend. He asks how my plan is working, and I tell him the good news. He asks if it might be possible for him to get some of the free wine they are handing out in the lobby. "There's free wine?" is my response. We head towards the lobby. Wayne is wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. "I can't go in there," he says when we first see the lobby full of dresses and tuxedoes. "No, I guess you can't," is my first response. But then, seconds later, "Wait. Why can't you?" We walk in.
8:15 pm - Find my friend Larry, who plays trumpet, and others, drinking in the lobby. Oh, they're drinking, that means we can drink. The only difference, of course, is that they actually play on this concert. But that distinction has disappeared for me by now. After a glass of white wine and a glass of champagne each (Larry thought the champagne was a little dry, but we both agreed the wine was top of the line), we begin to wonder out loud whether we might be able to find Wayne a seat with the musicians. I mean, what could stop us?
8:30 pm - Back in the balcony, waiting excitedly for the Tchaikovsky to start. Larry and Wayne are next to me, Larry in his tux for the right reasons, me in mine for no reason, and Wayne in street clothes. No problem. I am sitting in exactly the same seat as before, not on purpose, but I think it's fitting. Yeah. I'm back. So what.
8:50 pm - Whew. My God. First movement just ended. "I need a cigarette after that," says Larry. This has to be one of the most electric performances I have ever seen. It sure doesn't sound like a student orchestra.
9:30 pm - The Symphony is over. I'm completely spent at this point. What a performance, the energy was unbelievable. I've never heard anything like it. We stand for three curtain calls, then make for the exits. After all, free Mexican food awaits.
9:40 pm - Go backstage to congratulate the musicians. Forget about avoiding the conductor. It's over now, anyway, what could he do? On the way back out, pass by him as he is shaking hands. Make eye contact. He knows, he must know. Keep looking at him anyway. Remember, I'm untouchable. "Nice playing," he says to me. Complete disbelief. Just keep walking. Did I fool him? I have to know. Look back at him again. He's giving me that look, a look that says, "I know what you did." But not a disapproving look. Yeah, he knows. But it makes no difference. It never did. I was up there in the balcony for a reason, just like everone else, it just wasn't the same reason. I had gotten away with a series of small transgressions, all too slight to be noticed on their own. But he knows. He continues to give me the look. "Thanks!" I say, and smile. I'm also here for a reason. I was meant to hear that concert.
10 pm to 1 am - Party at Ninfa's. The fajitas are fantastic, and the margaritas are potent. Everyone is there, plenty of people who didn't even play, including myself, Wayne, significant others of orchestra members, and more. Still, I'm willing to bet that I was the only one who thought to crash the concert, as well. Emily says this part of the night was like the end of a cheesy 80's movie, when the entire cast gets together at a restaurant and parties, people who didn't know each other meet and have fun, loud music is playing, then the credits roll. That's what it felt like. Everyone we knew was there.
1:08 am (that time is exact) - After leaving Ninfa's my watch stops. I don't realize until this morning. It's a nice watch, it's strange that it just decided to stop. What's the significance? I'm not sure, but I don't think it's a coincidence. What a strange and wonderful night.
So that's the story. My success in fooling everyone makes me think I have a bright future to look forward to in crashing weddings. But this may always remain my crowing achievement.
I'll start with the necessary background. So last night there was a concert, no wait, a "Gala event," celebrating the 30th anniversary of the Shepherd School of Music. The idea was to charge oodles of money for seats, to get lots of donors to open their wallets and help fund the school's scholarships, which are significant (after this concert, I think tuition will be basically free for all graduate students). The program looked like this:
The Infernal Machine by Christopher Rouse, Larry Rachleff conducting
Violin Concerto No. 17 by Mozart, Itzhak Perlman, violin, Larry Rachleff conducting
Intermission
Symphony No. 4 by Tchaikovsky, Itzhak Perlman conducting.
Needless to say, the night was a success. The school raised a total of 3 million dollars. That's not a typo. The cheapest seats were $500 a pop. I found out later that the lucky donors who sat at Perlman's table for dinner after the concert paid upwards of $500,000 each for the privilege.
So here's the thing. This concert is a big deal. I want to see it. The Rouse and Tchaikovsky both have trombones, but I am not assigned to play on either one. There are seats in the gallery behind the stage reserved for musicians while they are not playing, but are only for musicians who are actually playing in the concert (they made sure to specifically mention this). To make matters worse, there is a free buffet after the concert at a Mexican restaurant uptown called Ninfa's, which is, again, intended only for musicians specifically playing on this concert. What was I to do? Tickets started at $500, so scratch any legitimate attempt at getting a seat. I can't sneak in, security will be too tight for such an event. But why sneak? I'm a musician. If I show up in a tuxedo, look like I'm there to play, and walk up to the reserved musician seats, who would stop me? And as long as I got that far, I might as well attend the buffet afterwards, right?
What could possibly go wrong?
So that you can fully appreciate the events that followed my decision to crash this concert, I have provided a detailed description of the evening, classic Sports Guy-style, in diary form. Since I was not actually keeping a diary during the night, the times are approximate. But you get the idea.
Saturday, February 4, 2006
7:00 pm - Emily and Lilly are getting dressed and ready to go actually play in the concert. Time for me to put on my tux and get my game face on. For tonight, I'm crashing a $3,000,000 event, and nothing can stop me.
7:10 pm - Arrive at Alice Pratt Brown Hall, home of the Shepherd School. Patrons of the concert are driving their cars right up to the building's entrance, where a red carpet and valet service awaits them. We, lowly musicians (well, myself excluded) park ourselves and walk.
7:13 pm - The lobby of the building is full of people, and we have to push our way through. First pangs of panic when I brush right past one of the music school administrators, but calm down again when I realize he has no idea who plays in what piece. In fact, pretty much nobody has any idea who plays in what piece, except for Larry, the conductor, who I can easily avoid by avoiding the backstage area, and possibly Marty, the orchestra manager who sends out casting and rehearsal emails. But even Marty will have too much going on to notice. My confidence is beginning to grow.
7:15 pm - Okay, through the lobby. Need to kill some time, look busy. Head to the bathroom.
7:18 pm - That didn't kill enough time. Concert starts at 7:30. I don't want to sit down to early, be the only one there. Run into Emily. She says nobody is up there yet, that I should wait. But waiting increases my panic level with each minute. Someone's going to see me. Pace the hall.
7:22 pm - Momentary panic. Ms. Speziale, the trumpet teacher, is heading towards me. I freeze. I can't avoid her. She knows, she's going to ask why I'm dressed up. She knows I don't play. Too late, here she comes, she's smiling, waving to me, "Play pretty!" she says. Wait, what? Play pretty?!!! I fooled her! I fooled Ms. Speziale. This is too easy. I'm going to go sit down.
7:30 pm - In my seat. Concert's about to start. I begin to ponder possible strategies. I should at the very least change seats for the second half, so that nobody will notice that I am up here the entire concert. Finalize my plan to go down after the Mozart and chill briefly in the stairwell before quickly circling around to the other side and entering a different door and taking a different seat. Should I change my wardrobe somehow, take off my bow tie? Muss up my hair? Trade contacts for glasses? No, too late. Just relax, you're fine. The concert's starting.
7:40 pm - Okay, Rouse is over. It was pretty good. The orchestra sounds amazing, as always. I can't wait to hear the rest. The orchestra members not playing in the Mozart begin to file up to the musician seats to hear Itzhak. I start to feel guilty because I stole a seat. But it's okay, I'm here for a reason, I'm playing this concert, stay in character, Chris, stay in character. I'm sitting next to Mark, another trombone player who will be playing in the Tchaikovsky. He asks something to the effect of "How did it go," implying that he thought I had played in the Rouse. I explained my situation to him, and he seemed completely shocked. I mean, this is a trombone player! He knows the castings, that I don't play, and I fooled him! Man, I'm untouchable now. I mean, think about it, who would ever show up to a concert in a tux and claim to be playing in the concert if they weren't? What kind of person would do something like that? It's insane! Confidence rising.
7:42 pm - Another scary moment during the change for the Mozart, an usher (Ushers? Shit.) comes up to our row and says that nobody is supposed to be here. I say nothing. Someone next to me says they are playing in the second half, and explains that we are allowed to be here. Ten minutes ago, I would have panicked. But now I'm untouchable. I'm playing. I'm allowed to sit here. Prove me wrong.
8:10 pm - That was amazing. It takes Itzhak so much effort to get across the stage to the podium, due to a childhood case of Polio, but when he picks up the violin and starts to play, it's completely effortless. It's like he's talking, or breathing. It's an extension of him. Intermission time now. Forget the plan, I'm going down to see some of my friends.
8:12 pm - Run into Wayne, who is auditioning on French Horn and staying with me for the weekend. He asks how my plan is working, and I tell him the good news. He asks if it might be possible for him to get some of the free wine they are handing out in the lobby. "There's free wine?" is my response. We head towards the lobby. Wayne is wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. "I can't go in there," he says when we first see the lobby full of dresses and tuxedoes. "No, I guess you can't," is my first response. But then, seconds later, "Wait. Why can't you?" We walk in.
8:15 pm - Find my friend Larry, who plays trumpet, and others, drinking in the lobby. Oh, they're drinking, that means we can drink. The only difference, of course, is that they actually play on this concert. But that distinction has disappeared for me by now. After a glass of white wine and a glass of champagne each (Larry thought the champagne was a little dry, but we both agreed the wine was top of the line), we begin to wonder out loud whether we might be able to find Wayne a seat with the musicians. I mean, what could stop us?
8:30 pm - Back in the balcony, waiting excitedly for the Tchaikovsky to start. Larry and Wayne are next to me, Larry in his tux for the right reasons, me in mine for no reason, and Wayne in street clothes. No problem. I am sitting in exactly the same seat as before, not on purpose, but I think it's fitting. Yeah. I'm back. So what.
8:50 pm - Whew. My God. First movement just ended. "I need a cigarette after that," says Larry. This has to be one of the most electric performances I have ever seen. It sure doesn't sound like a student orchestra.
9:30 pm - The Symphony is over. I'm completely spent at this point. What a performance, the energy was unbelievable. I've never heard anything like it. We stand for three curtain calls, then make for the exits. After all, free Mexican food awaits.
9:40 pm - Go backstage to congratulate the musicians. Forget about avoiding the conductor. It's over now, anyway, what could he do? On the way back out, pass by him as he is shaking hands. Make eye contact. He knows, he must know. Keep looking at him anyway. Remember, I'm untouchable. "Nice playing," he says to me. Complete disbelief. Just keep walking. Did I fool him? I have to know. Look back at him again. He's giving me that look, a look that says, "I know what you did." But not a disapproving look. Yeah, he knows. But it makes no difference. It never did. I was up there in the balcony for a reason, just like everone else, it just wasn't the same reason. I had gotten away with a series of small transgressions, all too slight to be noticed on their own. But he knows. He continues to give me the look. "Thanks!" I say, and smile. I'm also here for a reason. I was meant to hear that concert.
10 pm to 1 am - Party at Ninfa's. The fajitas are fantastic, and the margaritas are potent. Everyone is there, plenty of people who didn't even play, including myself, Wayne, significant others of orchestra members, and more. Still, I'm willing to bet that I was the only one who thought to crash the concert, as well. Emily says this part of the night was like the end of a cheesy 80's movie, when the entire cast gets together at a restaurant and parties, people who didn't know each other meet and have fun, loud music is playing, then the credits roll. That's what it felt like. Everyone we knew was there.
1:08 am (that time is exact) - After leaving Ninfa's my watch stops. I don't realize until this morning. It's a nice watch, it's strange that it just decided to stop. What's the significance? I'm not sure, but I don't think it's a coincidence. What a strange and wonderful night.
So that's the story. My success in fooling everyone makes me think I have a bright future to look forward to in crashing weddings. But this may always remain my crowing achievement.
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